


Pretty Boy

by nomelon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Incest, Kink, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Makeup, Porn, Smut, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-05
Updated: 2010-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-07 01:16:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomelon/pseuds/nomelon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam catches Dean wearing makeup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Sam/Dean, makeup, mirror. Sam comes early to motel from wherever, finds Dean applying makeup in bathroom. (Mascara and heavy eyeliner, shiny sheer lipgloss to make his lips plumper.

Sam stops in the doorway. Just stops. He's halfway through a sentence, but for the life of him, he can't remember what the hell he was talking about. It could have been something important about the siren they're trying to track down but, really, it pales into insignificance in the face of _this_. Because _this_, in a life full to bursting with insane, supernatural, unbelievable things, _this_ has them all beat.

Dean's shirtless, his chest and shoulder still bruised from that thing last week in Oregon, but it's his face that has all of Sam's attention. He looks shocked and a little dismayed, his mouth hanging open in surprise. His eyes are kohl-dark and smudged to smoky perfection, making the green of his eyes startlingly bright, his pupils expanding to huge and black now that he's looking away from the bright vanity light above the bathroom mirror. His lips, always ridiculously pretty, are coral pink, shiny with gloss that plumps them even further, making Sam think words that should never be connected with Dean. Words like pouty and lush and biteable. When Dean darts his tongue over his lower lip -- a nervous, telling little gesture -- it hits Sam somewhere low and achy in his gut.

Dean -- Sam's dorky, grumpy, manly big brother, Dean -- has a mascara wand in his hand, like he was just about to apply another coat to make his lashes even longer, amping up the dark shadows around his eyes that only serve to make his eyes bigger, making him look wanton and young, ready for dark rooms and loud music and wicked, wicked things.

Dean blushes, actually blushes, his cheeks staining dark pink even as his lips start to work, stammered denials and explanations that Sam doesn't even hear as he drops his scratchy motel towel to the floor without thought and has Dean backed up against the sink within seconds.

"Sam, really. I'm not--"

"Shut up, shut up," Sam mutters, staring at Dean's mouth, but he doesn't miss the way that Dean swallows hard and just does what he's told.

Sam drags his thumb over Dean's lower lip, entranced by the slight give of flesh, the way the gloss slides, silky smooth under the pad of his thumb. Dean just stands there, not shutting down, not shoving Sam away, just standing there, embarrassed and hating it, but letting Sam have his way.

"You do this a lot?" Sam asks, surprised by the husk of his voice, wondering how in the hell he could have missed this, that he didn't know this about his brother, because he was pretty sure he knew every last one of Dean's dirty little secrets.

Dean just gives a short shake of his head. His eyes flicker closed when Sam slides his thumb past Dean's lips. He sighs, his tongue slick against Sam's skin, his breath tickling the back of Sam's fingers, and it sounds like shame. It sounds like resignation. Sam crowds in closer, close as he can get, because this is fucked up, it's nuts, but it's doing crazy, crazy things to his insides. He wants more of Dean like this, because the make-up is making him look delicate in a way that Dean never normally looks, but it's more than that. Sam licks at the corner of Dean's mouth, tasting the waxy gloss. Dean frowns, his breath coming a little quicker, and he doesn't open his eyes to say, "Sammy?"

It's only a little muffled by Sam's thumb in his mouth, the length of it held gently in place between Dean's teeth, and it sounds tentative as hell, like Dean can't believe this is something Sam could get behind. This close Sam can smell the faint plasticy scent of the make-up; he can see the nervous leap of Dean's pulse in his throat. Dean shifts against him, just enough to clue Sam in to the fact that Dean's hard against him, really fucking hard, and he might be embarrassed, but he's just as into this as Sam is.

Sam pulls his thumb out of Dean's mouth, smearing the gloss down over his skin, and he bites on Dean's lower lip. "Pretty fucker," he murmurs, Dean's lip still caught between his teeth. "You know what you look like right now? You got any clue?"

Dean only shakes his head again, but he's moving, back to being an active participant, his hands going instinctively to Sam's ass, squeezing and drawing him in tight, doing his damnedest to get Sam to shut the hell up by kissing him, making it wet and messy, smearing his lip gloss over Sam's mouth, twisting Sam all up inside, because this is like a fucked up version of what it used to be like a lifetime ago, with normal, pretty girls in everyday places, back in the real world, before this became his life. Before Dean became his life. Before nights like this one became the norm.

Sam's already tearing at Dean's fly, working his jeans down over his hips and Dean's just going with it, getting his hands inside Sam's pants. It's good. It's all so good that Sam's dizzy with it.

He turns Dean around, makes him brace his hands on the edge of the sink, and grabs the lube from Dean's sparse little bathroom kitbag. Dean's eyes are still closed, every muscle piano wire taut, but that's not what Sam wants at all. "Open your eyes," he says, and he doesn't know if it's his words or his fingers that shock Dean into opening his eyes and watching what they're doing together in the mirror. Sam takes his time over it, waits 'til Dean is open and wet and pushing back in greedy little figure eights, rubbing his ass all over Sam's knuckles, begging for it without saying a word.

Pushing inside of him, slow and inevitable, is like nothing on earth, Dean ready for it and just _taking_ it. There's only the endless drive of bodies, the heat and sweat of it, Dean's palm slapping up against the glass for leverage, Sam's whole body going for it, just holding onto Dean's hips and fucking into him with everything he has.

He pushes Dean's knee up higher, curled over the edge of the sink to give him the room he wants to work, fucking his brother harder and faster, the end rushing towards him until he comes, hot and sticky, pushing his face into Dean's throat, his cheek sliding on sweat.

Dean's skin tastes like salt and like home. When Sam makes a fist in his hair and turns his head for a kiss, Dean's mouth tastes sweet, the faint wax on his lips kissed away to almost nothing.

"Dude," Dean says as Sam's still deep inside him, soft and slippery-sore and completely amazing. Dean smiles, lazy and happy and back to being _Dean_, and he presses their foreheads together. "You totally fucked up my mascara."

  
-end-


End file.
